


Number One

by katofrafters



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Asexual Luther Hargreeves, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Body Image, Gen, Luther Hargreeves Needs A Hug, POV Luther Hargreeves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27082081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katofrafters/pseuds/katofrafters
Summary: He wakes with a gasp.The first thing he realizes is that he’s alive. He’s emphatically not dead, so, that's good.The second thing he realizes, is that he’s in the infirmary. So—safe at home. Okay.The third thing he realizes, is that something is wrong.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Unbalanced

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, just the ramblings of a person trying to write for fun and not holding her work to such an impossibly high standard it never gets posted.
> 
> (Thanks to Tumblr, for the inspo.)

He wakes with a gasp.

The first thing he realizes is that he’s alive. He’s emphatically not dead. He’s breathing, and even though his entire body feels like it just finished the longest, hardest training session of his life, it’s still there.

The second thing he realizes, is that he’s in the infirmary. So—safe at home. That’s good. 

The third thing he realizes, is that something is wrong.

He shoots upright with the thought, struggling to understand why. There’s no single sensation that he can pinpoint as a source for the wrongness, just a sudden uneasiness that eats at his stomach. He reaches for his chest, expecting bandages, but instead feeling—leather? 

He looks down and where his chest should be there’s brown leathery skin and fur and—a hand catches his attention, fingers long and muscular, but thinner than the short, chunky thumb. There’s fur, he realizes, watching the hand move and twist in front of his face, flexing and flattening.

The scream builds in his throat before he even knows what’s happening. That’s his hand. That can’t be his hand. It can’t be.

He flinches back and the medical table beneath him groans and creaks. 

“Luther,” greets Mother, sweeping into the room with a look of concern on her perfect face. “Is everything okay?”

He doesn’t have words. He doesn’t even remember when he starts screaming, only when Grace reaches out and places a cool hand against his shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” she assures him, smiling reassuringly. “You’re going to be okay.”

“What—“ he tries to ask, but the words get stuck behind the lump in his throat.

“Master Luther,” Pogo greets, quick as he approaches them. “You’re awake.”

It’s all Luther can do to nod. God, can he go back to unconsciousness? Is that an option?

“Please, understand that you were very near death when you came back to us,” Pogo explained, voice soft. 

“So you—You—“

“Yes,” Pogo agreed. “It is very similar to the serum your father used to save my life when I was young.”

And that sends a chill down Luther’s spine. 

“Pogo?” he asks, voice small. “Am I gonna turn into a monkey?”

“I am an ape,” Pogo corrected, voice sharp. “And unlike you, I was born an ape. You were born human.”

Luther fought a hysteric giggle at that. He brought a hand up to rest against his forehead, then flinched away from it. 

“You will be okay,” Grace insisted again, her hand squeezing on his shoulder. 

—

The walk to the training room was long and embarrassing. He felt like the floor was unsteady, each step full of a sway that only his mother’s deceptively strong grip kept from taking him down. 

He'd never needed to look at his feet to walk before, but he couldn't fight the urge to look down, to see why he was struggling so much. God, Klaus could walk a straighter line on half a bottle of whiskey. 

"Almost there," Grace commented, cheerily.

Luther nodded, trying to straighten up and take some weight off her tiny frame, but all that did was overbalance him and nearly send both of them over backwards.

Grace stopped, a little frown in place of her usual beaming smile as she balanced him. Her eyes flicked up and down his body, and Luther fought the urge to flinch.

"Trouble?" asked Pogo, head poking out into the hall.

Grace looked at him, then back to Luther.

"Master Luther?"

"Just hard to balance," Luther admitted, watching as Pogo stepped into the hall, leaning on his cane.

"You have suffered a very sudden change in body mass and muscle distribution," Pogo pointed out as he approached. "Unbalance is to be expected."

Luther felt his attention trapped on Pogo's cane. Did that mean that... Would he need a cane now?

"Almost there," Grace commented, voice cheery, but expression, troubled.

Luther nodded, trying to straighten again, then feeling himself stumble.

"Let Grace help you," Pogo urged, voice soft. "Do not worry about your balance--it will come back with time."

Luther looked down at Grace's steady hand under his arm. She did not look the least bit uncomfortable lifting him. It still bothered him, how he couldn't even walk without his mom.

“Are you in pain, Number One?”

Luther's head jerked up. His father was standing at the end of the hall.

“No, sir,” he answered, automatically.

"Then come along."

Luther took a steadying breath and nodded, stepping forward. Grace's grip was tight and reassuring as she guided him.

In the old gym, she eased him onto a bench next to a series of medical instruments. Pogo took up a clipboard and Grace tied on her nurse's apron.

"We are going to conduct some simple tests to see how you are progressing," Pogo explained, already reaching for Luther's wrist. "Please let us know if you experience any pain."

Luther nodded, watching Pogo probe for his pulse. It was unnerving, feeling the distant pressure of Pogo's fingers through the leathery skin. That much pressure should have at least been uncomfortable, but he barely felt it.

A moment later, Pogo began looking at his watch. Then, he noted something down on his clipboard.

Luther watched, somewhat distant from himself, as Pogo and Mom began poking around, testing and measuring. Someone stuck a thermometer in his mouth. There was an attempt to take his blood pressure, but the cuff wouldn't go around his arm.

He might have nodded off at some point. It felt like all of a sudden, they were done.

“You will have tonight and tomorrow to recover from this… change," his father's voice said, out of the blue, startling him. "Training will resume the day after.”

“Training?” 

“Yes, Number One. Training.”

“Can you…fix me?” he asked.

Reginald’s frown grew still colder.

“Fix you?” he asked, scoffing. “Your blood is back where it belongs, your burns have healed, and you are breathing without difficulty. You are fixed, Number One.”

“Yessir,” Luther answered, through the knot in his throat. 

His father accepted the clipboard from Pogo and, with barely a second glance, left the room.

Luther sat still, blinking back the heat in his eyes and trying not to look at anything in particular. 

—

He hadn’t even noticed how naked he was until Grace gently eased him onto his bed. 

“We’ll have to get you a larger bed, Dear,” she comment, patting his shoulder reassuringly and then turning to his closet. “I will have some clothes for you later this afternoon.”

Luther looked down, blanching at his nakedness. God, there was fur everywhere. He placed an oversized hand over his genitals.

“Would you like something to eat?” Grace asked, turning back toward him with an armload of clothes in her arms.

Luther shook his head.

“Then I’ll be back soon. Please get some rest.”

Luther just nodded, dumbfounded, and watched her retreat from the room, closing the door softly behind her.

—

When the door opened next, it was Pogo, carefully walking inside with a tray balanced on his arm and a bag of clothing hung over the top of his cane.

“Master Luther,” he greeted, stepping into the room and gently kicking the door shut behind him.

“I have brought you some clothing,” Pogo announced, “and some food,” he waved a hand toward the tray. “There will be no formal dinner this week.”

Luther just nodded.

“Would you like help dressing?”

“No,” Luther answered, more sharply than he had meant to. 

“Then I will take my leave, unless you have… questions?”

“I don’t.”

“Very well, then,” Pogo said, making his way back to the door. “I will be around, should you think of something to ask.”

Luther didn’t so much as look at him as Pogo left the room.

—

The pants went on fine—Grace had kindly sent him PJs first, so it was just a matter of sliding them on and tightening the string. Getting them on was an ordeal, but Luther was grateful to at least have something between his eyes and the...fur.

The shirt was a different matter. The fabric felt strange under his blunt, useless hands, though it somehow managed to fit over his ridiculous shoulders. When he pulled the front closed over his chest, though, he found a serious problem. 

His fingers couldn’t work the buttons. Those tiny, tiny buttons were just too small. He spent ages trying, and failing, to get the damn shirt shut, buttons popping loose and pinging off the far wall.

The lump in his throat expanded to painful proportions. God, he was useless.

—

Ideally, he would have laid in bed forever. His bladder had other ideas.

Waiting would just make things worse. But also, he did not want to look at anything. As long as he didn’t look, he could pretend this was all some sort of miserable dream.

Except for the fact that his feet hung off the end of the bed. And his blanket would cover either his legs or his torso, but not both. 

He pushed the blanket away, resolutely not looking at any part of his body as he clumsily tucked his legs under him. 

Groping out until he found his desk, he pushed himself upright, waiting for his balance to settle. His room seemed suddenly smaller, the ground so much more distant than it had been. 

He closed his eyes, taking a grounding breath, and looked up and toward his door. One step at a time. That’s all. 

His first step was unsteady and involved a ridiculous amount of hand waving, but he managed to stay upright. The next was equally unsteady, causing him to knock something off his desk—he didn’t stop to look at what.

Then he was mobile, slowly, uneasily, but mobile nonetheless. 

There was no one in the hall—god, he’d never been happier to see an empty house. So he let himself trail a steadying hand along the wall as he stumbled past empty rooms to the nearest bathroom.

Inside, he briefly considered the logistics of standing vs sitting. God, he did not want to think about what things looked like downstairs. 

Still, he was Number Freaking One—he could do this.

So he did.

And then he washed his hands with his eyes closed, dodged all glances in the mirror, and walked unsteadily back to bed.

* * *

Grace came in later—how much later, he wasn’t sure—with a basket full of freshly laundered Gorilla-boy clothes and a worried face. 

“You haven’t gotten up yet,” she scolded, setting the basket aside. “Is everything alright?”

Luther shook his head.

“Come, Dear. Let us get you downstairs so you can eat some breakfast."

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat if you want to grow big and strong.”

“I’m not hungry,” he repeated, biting down the angrier comments he wanted to make. 

“Then please come downstairs and keep me company,” she urged. “There’s a new bed coming for you today and they can’t move it in if you’re here, silly.”

Luther groaned, raising one rectangular palm to press over his eyes. He heard his dresser drawers opening and closing, heard the shuffle of fabric as his mother worked.

Slowly, laboriously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and squared his feet on the floor. The shirt had gotten twisted in his movement, and he struggled to straighten it.

“Here,” Grace scolded, righting the shirt and deftly buttoning it closed as best she could with the tattered, missing bits. “All done,” she announced as she finished. 

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re very welcome,” she said, smiling at him as she stood back. “Are you okay walking?” 

He nodded, easing himself back to his feet. She adjusted her pace outside the room, staying in step without a word. 

She led him not to the kitchen, but to the biggest downstairs bathroom. Before he could ask, she waved him into a sturdy-looking chair and grabbed the box holding the antique clippers she had used to cut his hair for as long as he could remember.

“You could do with a haircut,” she said, smiling all the while. “And a shave?”

“Okay,” he answered, watching her lay out everything she needed on a little rolling cart, like she had when they were little on haircut day. Only, this time she produced a box he’d never seen before, this one containing a straight razor and shaving cream.

Luther closed his eyes and let her cool fingers in his hair calm him. Scissors snipped and trimmed at the massive beard he had barely noticed, and at the hair that had draped into his eyes. His head felt lighter as she buzzed the edges, pausing only to change the guard on the blade to different lengths. 

The shave felt amazing, though his neck was already getting tired from holding the positions she asked of him. 

“Much better,” she announced at last, holding a mirror up just as he risked opening his eyes.

The face looking back in that little hand mirror, was his. He looked—the same. 

The hand reaching out, though—that was not his. Only it was. 

But his face—god, his face hadn’t changed at all. 

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Of course, Dear.” She smiled at him, squeezing his shoulder. “Now, come get some food.”


	2. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the heck does an oversized person with super strength navigate an ancient shower/bathtub?

The new bed was long enough for him, twice as wide as it had been as well, with higher legs so it was easier to get in and out of. It cramped the little space he'd grown up in, and he hated it.

But not as much as he hated the pile of towels and bar of soap.

On the bright side, a lot of people showered with their eyes closed. It helped keep water and shampoo and stuff out. On the other hand, most of them couldn't accidentally put an elbow through the wall if they weren't paying attention.

He could do this. Hell, he _had_ to do this--he'd sweat through his last shirt and there was a...smell.

It wasn't the sweaty gym smell, or the tang of human stank when one of his siblings forgot to throw on some deodorant. It was musky and weird and not human.

But, again, there was the shower. Getting there had taken a stupid amount of time, what with him having zero experience carrying things like this and even less practice reaching down to grab stuff that had fallen.

He went to his knees twice, wincing at the resounding thud. It wasn't nearly as upsetting as how comfortable the position felt--muscles in his back all but sighing in relief.

And when he did finally get to the shower, he sighed. That stupid shower head had always been too short for him, but it was barely chest height now.

He stripped away his clothing, dumping it into the hamper by the door and trying to figure out how the hell he was going to do this. Could he balance long enough to stand? Would he even fit in the stupid tub if he sat?

He froze by the door, breathing hard, mind racing. He couldn't do this. He couldn't--

_Hurry up, Number One._

He closed his eyes, pushing his Father's voice from his mind and focusing on the task at hand. Just, think of it as a mission. What were the parameters for success?

Get in, get clean, don't break anything.

He could do that. Just, one step at a time.

The towels went to the toilet lid, within reach of the tub, but not so close they'd get soaked.

He turned on the tap, gently, careful not to wrench the handles.

Fingers under the rushing water, probing for a temperature. It should have been freezing, but it barely felt cool over his fingers. Bitter winter winds sounded not so bad all of a sudden. Next time he went out--

Right. Focusing on the mission.

He eased out the toggle for the shower head, waiting for the water to gurgle up to the higher tap. When it started, he slowly stepped in, gingerly bracing himself between the two solid walls on the ends of the tub.

He grabbed the soap from its customary dish, frowning at the half-sized bar still left in the tray. Why had they given him another whole bar?

Didn't matter. He started scrubbing, careful to lean against the walls and brace himself before he moved. The old ceramic floor was far more slippery than he'd remembered.

Fur was infuriating. He hated how much of it he had, how long it took to lather up and even longer to rinse. Was this why Allison had always taken so much longer in the shower? All that hair?

By the time he finished, stepping out onto the bath mat, he was shaking.

It still didn’t feel right—like he was wrapped in a bulky costume he couldn't get off. And there was his strength--he hadn't felt this out-of-control since he was little. 

_Number One will shower daily_.

If he heard it in his father’s voice, then maybe he could make it true. It was absolutely what his father would demand once he found out how hard such a simple activity was for him. Luther could think of it as a part of training--a simple daily mission. 

But for now, he rose and wrapped the biggest of the towels around his hips. It was still long enough to tuck around his waist, so, yay?

He soaked the other two towels drying of his hair and chest. God, all that fur. Maybe Mom could help him shave it down?

His face looked haggard in the mirror--foreign on top of that hairy, ape body.

He turned away, surveying the room. The soap that had been left in his room got put in the tray, where the previous bar had been. If any had been left after washing, he'd definitely lost it down the drain. Damn sausage fingers.

Soaked towels in the laundry, just the one around his waist as he gathered himself for the walk back. It was getting easier to move, but he didn't want to risk tripping over nothing and losing the only piece of fabric between his modesty and the world.

\---

In his room, he peeled the now-soaked towel from his hips and went for the clothing set out on his freshly made bed.

These weren’t pajamas, but proper trousers, complete with closure at the front. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, frustrated breath, and set them aside. 

The boxers were easy enough. Same with the undershirt.

When he finally brought himself to open the front of the trousers, though, they felt weird. He frowned, pulling them up for closer inspection.

The closure was a false front over stretchy, bunched fabric. A startled laugh bubbled from his mouth as he fingered the clever design, considering.

He climbed into the trousers, sighing as they slipped effortlessly over his muscular legs and settled snugly at his waist. He tucked in the undershirt as an afterthought and grabbed for the button up shirt, curious.

The simplicity of this design took his breath away--the buttons affixed to the front hid simple snaps behind. Tears fell hot down his face as he clumsily dragged the button-up on, all but sobbing as the snaps popped together under his oversized fingers. For a moment he just stood there, gazing down at his properly clothed body. Once he had shoes and stuff on, things would get better, but for now... it would do.

He felt almost human again.

**Author's Note:**

> No one ever talks about the shit Luther dealt with. I get that all the siblings suffered, and the (presumably) straight cis white dude who was literally the number one member of their dad's twisted rating system didn't face the same sort of suffering as his queer, PoC, traumatized, and addiction suffering siblings. 
> 
> That said, though, I was also that arrogant white kid who didn't know that disobeying the parents was even an option, who thought I was right all the time, and who hid my insecurities behind oversized clothing. Much to my annoyance, I see myself in Luther. In the same way, I'm a lot more queer and relaxed than my uptight goody-two-shoes childhood self, and I hope Luther gets to be that way one day too.


End file.
